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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122279">transactional</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingjanee/pseuds/beingjanee'>beingjanee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:13:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingjanee/pseuds/beingjanee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Molly Hooper is the only person to ever describe Mycroft Holmes as a "nice man."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>148</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Follows most of canon until the end of S2, with the exception of the blogs, the details of which will not be included in this story.</p><p>[Not beta'd. Please excuse any discrepancies, plot holes, or Americanisms. I did my best.]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Molly finds out Sherlock has a brother the same day that she finds out he’s a junkie.  </p><p>It's the middle of a weekday afternoon and she's hesitating outside of his flat, unsure if it was, in any way, a good idea to hunt down the detective’s address (“<em>Please</em>, Greg, Stamford will have my head and then <em> you’ll </em> be next"). She hovers over the door as if waiting for permission to knock, and then she tells herself, sternly, that <em> he’s </em> the one who’s refused to answer his phone or his texts for the past two weeks, and she really does need the bag of biohazard back from him if she isn’t going to get <em>bloody fired</em>. </p><p>It takes her five minutes to finally rap her knuckles on the wood. When there is no answer, she thinks about leaving, about telling Stamford that he can go looking for the tongues if he’s so inclined, and then she knocks on the door until her knuckles hurt.</p><p>It takes ten minutes until she gives up, cursing, the back of her hand a stinging red. She stands on the stoop, hoping Sherlock Holmes is out there choking on the pit of an olive or being attacked by a flock of pigeons, anything to decimate his ego, and she halfheartedly tries the door knob. </p><p>The door creaks open, unlocked, which should have been the first sign that there is something wrong. There’s a stench of tobacco and chemicals hiding the more sour smells of a person who hasn’t taken care of themselves for quite some time. It’s the last thing she expects Sherlock’s home to smell like — she’d been imagining cedar and leather with basenotes of formaldehyde, the things that she smells when he sweeps past her in his long coat. At the very least, she thought it would be something cold and clinical, another lab away from the lab. What she had not imagined was for his home to smell like a <em> fucking drug den</em>. </p><p>“Sherlock?” Her voice is steady as she closes the door behind her and she pulls a small pocket light from her handbag. The flat is oppressively dark and she has a sinking feeling in her stomach, something that tells her that there is something very wrong. In hindsight, it doesn’t bode well that her reaction to this feeling is to go hunting for the cause of it. </p><p>“It’s Molly. From the lab? Sorry to intrude, but I just need to pick up the tongues you left with the other day. Not a big deal, just need to do some paperwork for them, you know how it is.” She speaks with the soothing calmness of someone faced with a wild animal, scared of provoking an attack or running it off. The feeling is still there, looming larger.</p><p>It takes her ten steps and a careful scan with her flashlight, but she finally sees him, and the feeling overwhelms her into an enormous<em> oh no</em>. </p><p>He’s on a filthy mattress, wrapped in a dressing gown with one sleeve pushed up. The marks on his veins are unmistakable; there are empty syringes and plastic wrappers scattered near him. He looks like a poster child for a drug awareness campaign, a definite worst case scenario to scare off any idiots who think they’re immune to an opioid overdose. </p><p>Because that’s what this is, an overdose.</p><p>“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” Molly’s brain is humming, entering a kind of autopilot as she drops to her knees and starts checking his eyes, his temperature. She listens to his chest, hears his breathing falter and then rattle to a stop, and then she almost tears the flat apart looking for naloxone. He’s Sherlock Holmes, he loves himself too much to let himself get so close without a backup plan, he’s the smartest man she’s ever met, he must have it — <em> godfuckingdammit where is it</em>?</p><p>The naloxone kit is hidden behind a stack of old newspapers and a skull at the top shelf of a bookcase. The adrenaline tastes like metal behind her teeth, and it’s difficult for her to swallow or even breathe right now, but her hands are perfectly steady as she unwraps the kit and draws up the naloxone and then stabs the syringe into his thigh. She pushes down the injection and waits. </p><p>Each second is a hundred years, and Sherlock doesn’t breathe until half a millenia has passed. It sputters out of him like an old engine and it’s only then — only then — that Molly allows herself to start shaking. </p><p>Molly sits with Sherlock’s curls in her lap after calling for the ambulance, her voice calm even as her hand trembles so much that she can hardly keep the phone to her ear. He’s still so cold, the depressions in his cheeks prominent. He’s lost weight, more than he can afford. </p><p>She bends over him, her eyes closed like she’s praying, and she realizes that her heart is somewhere outside of her chest. She’s only known Sherlock Holmes for six months now, after she became a specialist registrar for the St. Bart’s morgue and Mike Stamford put her in charge of dealing with New Scotland Yard. But when Sherlock breezed in and deduced the entirety of her life from her jumper before asking for a spleen, she thought about the neurons firing in his brain and felt something electric down her spine.</p><p>This is how Mycroft finds her, huffing slightly after taking the stairs up to the flat two at a time. He stands in the doorway, his face half hidden by the shadows, as men in dark suits stream in behind him and lift Sherlock gently from her lap. Molly’s eyes are wide and dark with fear and confusion, and she keeps her grip on the edge of his dressing gown even as the men start to walk away with Sherlock swinging between them on a stretcher. </p><p>“Who are you? I called for an ambulance.”</p><p>Her hand is white-knuckled against the dressing gown, but she stares resolutely down at the men, her feet unmoving. They stop and look to Mycroft, who simply stares at his brother. </p><p>“Did you inject the naloxone?” he asks finally. Molly looks from Sherlock to the unknown man and nods uncertainly.</p><p>He steps further into the room. He’s tall and pale and a touch reedy, but there’s enough family resemblance for something to click in her brain. She lets go, her fingers still trailing through the fabric of the dressing gown, and the men troop away for the stairs. As they leave, a woman slides past them and enters the flat, a phone out and gleaming into her face. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the sound of her typing, rapidly.</p><p>“He’ll be admitted at Bart’s,” the woman informs the man. “Rehab, I think?”</p><p>The man nods and she turns and leaves, her heels clicking expensive echos in the stairwell. When she’s gone, the man looks up from his staring at the mattress, and he gives her a wan smile. </p><p>“My name is Mycroft. Sherlock’s older brother.”</p><p>Molly feels quite small now, standing in the middle of Sherlock’s disastrous flat. She’s still holding onto a syringe, and her hands won’t stop bloody shaking. She swallows and does her best to grasp the steadiness that’s rapidly dissipating along with her adrenaline. </p><p>“I’m Molly. Molly Hooper. I work with your brother at the morgue in St. Bart’s.” </p><p>Mycroft nods but he doesn’t come closer to try to shake her hand. He just stares at it, looking at the syringe, and something drops from behind his eyes.</p><p>“We owe you a world of debt, Ms. Hooper. Sherlock might not be alive if you hadn’t administered the naloxone. Thank you.” </p><p>Molly tries to look modest, but her legs are giving out now and she’s busy sinking to the floor. Sherlock’s brother lets out a noise and comes to her aid with a gentle grip on her arms, his voice low as he murmurs, “Steady now.” He guides her to an armchair, perching her against it.</p><p>She holds onto the fat plush of the chair, trying to regulate her breathing and keep her cheeks from burning up with embarrassment. She’s a professional, she’s used to situations like this, she needs to<em> pull herself together </em> — but it’s Sherlock. How could she get used to something like this with Sherlock?</p><p>She looks at the brother, her eyes starting to water. “I didn’t know...I didn’t know he was going through this,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>The man stares back at her, his face etched with something painful. He draws back slightly, his eyes going dark, but he says nothing. He just smiles again, a close-mouthed upturn of his lips, and nods. But before he can leave, she grabs the sleeve of his coat and pulls. </p><p>“Mr. Holmes.” </p><p>He looks at her, an eyebrow raised, waiting.</p><p>“Could you let me know? If…” </p><p>
  <em> If he makes it. If he’s okay. If he’s fine. </em>
</p><p>Mycroft stares at her for a long moment, his eyes deep and impassive. He hesitates, almost as if he’ll refuse. And then, because Mycroft loves his brother, and she knows this before she knows anything else about him, he says, “Yes. I will let you know when he wakes.” </p><p>She nods back and lets go. “Good. Good,” she repeats herself. Her body feels heavy, her fingers frozen. The shaking has stopped only to be replaced by a leaden lethargy. It takes significant energy to lift her head to him, her eyes wide and brown and brimming. “Thank you.” </p><p>He smiles at her again, his expression slightly softer, and he pats her shoulder once before leaving.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He woke up this morning. Thank you again, Dr. Hooper. - MH  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock is gone for three months. </p><p>The world turns and the nightmare of his overdose fades into a dull thud that Molly only feels when she sees Greg without an overgrown spectre hovering over him. He looks harried and stressed, his hair turning grey at a rapid rate, but he still takes time to inform her, gently, that Sherlock is ill, but he’ll be alright, he’ll be back soon. He doesn’t tell her anything else and she doesn’t ask any questions. She just nods, pale and drawn, and Greg holds her hand for a moment because Sherlock is the curious source of their mutual fondness and awe that refuses to be undercut by all of his acidity and sharp edges. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” he says, to both of them. “He’ll be back here sticking his big nose into things and we’ll all be sorry again.”</p><p>She laughs a little, and the world keeps turning.</p><p>It’s a late night at the lab, and Molly is staring blankly at her computer screen, the graphs doubling into two separate pixel images across her eyeballs. She should have clocked out ages ago, only no one’s waiting for her and it’s raining outside, so there’s really no pressing need for her to go. So Molly’s there when the door opens and Sherlock steps in, quietly but smoothly, like he belongs here. </p><p>She’s out of her chair like a shot, his name on her lips. She drags her eyes over him, taking in the pallor of his face and his still too-skinny frame, but his eyes are alert and he’s scowling, so that must mean he’s better.</p><p>“I thought you’d have gone home by now,” he says curtly. “I need the files on Androvich, he should have been interred last week.” </p><p>He looks down at the microscope, steadfastly ignoring her, and she opens and closes her mouth like a fish. She wants to ask him about his recovery, about rehab, she wants to roll up his sleeve to check his arm for the bruises, but she’s known Sherlock Holmes for long enough to see when he’s avoiding her gaze. </p><p>She swallows hard and prints the file. She doesn’t ask questions or make demands because she knows, already, she knows. It’s not her place. She brings him a steaming mug of tea and packs up and she looks back when she’s at the door, a hand clutching her bag too tightly. </p><p>“I’m glad you’re better,” she says quietly. She doesn’t wait for a reply.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thank you, Mr. Holmes. - Molly </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Life goes on.</p><p>She celebrates the end of the first year into her new job with a bottle of wine and a fresh cadaver. Sir Jeffrey Patterson, 48, a well-to-do businessman who committed suicide after arriving in London from a trip. He took a cyanide capsule on an abandoned floor of an office building, which feels unusual, but then again, most people don’t commit suicide in usual circumstances. “Life’s hard,” she says sympathetically, patting the man’s shoulder. “But you had a wife to cry over you, which means you did something right.”</p><p>Patterson doesn’t say anything back; they never do.</p><p>Things get considerably less open-and-shut when two more bodies are reported dead in similar circumstances. Two cyanide capsules, empty gym, empty rental container. She reads the paper plastered with the headline SERIAL SUICIDES OR SERIAL KILLINGS? and feels a twinge of sympathy for Greg, who is quoted for his “crass and unhelpful advice, ‘Don’t kill yourself.’” </p><p>When she sees Greg later, his hair sticking upwards and his face sagging with the stress and exhaustion of a not-serial-killing, she pats him on the shoulder and offers a hot cup of tea. “Have you talked to Sherlock?” she asks, and his face sags impossibly more as he recounts, with a slightly haunted tone, that Sherlock has somehow figured out how to do mass simultaneous texting. </p><p>“That shouldn’t be possible,” she says absent-mindedly, but it doesn’t matter, because most of Sherlock Holmes is not possible. </p><p>“Anyways, he’s moved. Been evicted,” Greg mumbles through mouthfuls of tea. “He just texts me ‘you know where to find me,’ but I bloody well don’t, do I, if he’s been <em> bloody evicted </em> ? It’s going to be another thing to track down where he is, <em> Jesus Christ</em>...” </p><p>Something catches in her brain. “Evicted? Do you know why?” she asks, her breath coming in a little too fast. “Do you think —” Greg looks at her, the stress replaced by a dawning concern. “Do you think he —?” </p><p>Greg shakes his head slowly, but his face is unsure. “No-o. Probably not, he’s been functioning like normal, hasn’t he? Also, it’s Sherlock, it could be loads of things...the landlord probably found a decomposing head in the compost or something…”</p><p>Molly doesn’t respond; the two of them sit and contemplate the possibilities before Greg shakes his head again, more decisive, and gets off the bench. “I’m sure it’s fine, Molly. I wouldn’t worry about it.”</p><p>She nods, feigning reassurance, and waves him off as the stress of the case replaces any other concern he might have had about Sherlock’s living situation. She sits and worries all afternoon, almost biting her lip off until Sherlock strides in through the door, distracted by a case in Hertfordshire and in need of a fresh corpse and a riding crop. </p><p>He looks fine, he looks like he always does, but users are good at looking fine, at looking normal, until everything is not. Still fretting, she gets him his corpse (Larry Riordan, 67, natural causes, nice man, smiled at her when she said hello in the mornings, doesn’t have a family that could sue for damages), and she reapplies the lipstick that she had worried off earlier, wondering if there’s a way to ask Sherlock without him detecting what she’s asking. Perhaps over a coffee, let the conversation come up naturally...</p><p>“Bad day, was it?” she says conversationally when she reenters the room, watching him wipe down the crop and type away at his phone. </p><p>“I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes, a man’s alibi depends on it. Text me,” he says in response.</p><p>She might as well ask. </p><p>“Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you’re finished…”</p><p>He’s stopped texting and is looking at her now, an eyebrow cocked upwards. “Are you wearing lipstick? You’re wearing lipstick. You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”</p><p>“I, uh, refreshed it a bit.” </p><p>The way he raises both of his eyebrows at that is enough to make her instantly self-conscious. Does it look strange? Maybe it looks strange. </p><p>“Sorry, you were saying?” </p><p>Right. The confronting. “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.” </p><p>And the bastard, the smug cocky bastard, smiles at her and says, “Black, two sugars please, I’ll be upstairs.” </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>She’s debating whether or not to spit in his mug when the thought occurs to her. </p><p>His brother would know, wouldn’t he?</p><p>She pulls out her phone, looks at the blank text screen, and closes it. She repeats the process twice, before deciding that she’s being an idiot and a text is just a text; it won’t hurt anyone. Besides, she remembers his brother as being nice. Intimidating, but not the sort to bite her head off. </p><p><em> Mr. Holmes, I don’t know if you remember me, </em> she types slowly, hesitantly. </p><p> </p><p><em> I’m Molly Hooper, I work with your brother in the lab at St. Bart’s. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just heard Sherlock was evicted from his flat and I wanted to make sure <strike>that </strike> </em> <strike><em>he’s clean</em> </strike></p><p><strike><em> that they didn’t find a stash of drugs </em></strike> <em>that he’s okay. </em> <em> <strike>I might be overstepping I was worried</strike> </em><em>So sorry to bother you again. - Molly </em></p><p> </p><p>The text comes back unnervingly quickly. </p><p> </p><p><em> He was evicted because he forgot to pay his rent for the last five months. No need to worry, Ms. Hooper. </em> - <em> Anthea </em></p><p> </p><p>Anthea? </p><p>Her mind is blank for a few minutes before she remembers the woman with the expensive heels and the quick typing. His assistant, she realizes. Of course, he used his assistant’s number, rather than his own personal one. That would make sense. </p><p>Molly barely has a moment to feel foolish for thinking otherwise when her phone blips again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My brother is now situated at 221B Baker Street, Dr. Hooper. In case you need to find him again. Thank you for your concern. - MH</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s a warm gush of relief as she stares at the address, and she decides, in all of her magnanimity, not to spit in Sherlock’s coffee. She quickly sends a copy of Sherlock’s new address to Greg with the note, <em> I think you’ll need this</em>, and he sends back a scrambled message of gratitude and free coffee when he has the chance. </p><p>Before leaving the office kitchen, she catches a glimpse of herself in the glass pane of a window and decides that Sherlock’s probably right, the lipstick looks weird, and scrubs it off. </p><p>Upstairs, Sherlock’s talking to Stamford and a man holding a cane. </p><p>“Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you.” He takes it and sips before raising his eyebrows again. “What happened to the lipstick?”</p><p>“It wasn’t working for me,” she says. </p><p>“Really? I thought it was a big improvement, your mouth’s too small now.”</p><p>Stamford and the man with the cane are watching her with equal parts sympathy and horror at Sherlock’s rudeness. She smiles at them in reassurance, saying meekly, “Ok,” before sweeping out of the room. As she leaves, she dimly hears Sherlock rattle off his observations about the man with the cane, and she thinks, <em> I should have spit in his coffee.  </em></p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Her dad dies two months later.</p><p>At the funeral, she’s sobbing into her handbag behind a large cardboard construction of the nativity of Jesus when a hand touches her between her shoulder blades. It’s minute two into the five minutes she’s given herself to measure out her grief so that it doesn’t explode out of her at the wrong moment, and she whirls around, her eyes bloodshot and her nose a wet mess, ready for murder.</p><p>“<em>Jesus Christ, </em> I swear to god — oh my god, Mr. Holmes — how — when —” </p><p>He moves his hand away, reaches inside his coat pocket for his handkerchief. It’s silk, a dark navy, which thankfully means her tears and snot aren’t too visible as she wipes her face and tries to make herself decent. </p><p>“A bit apt, but perhaps unfortunately,<em> not </em> Jesus,” he says, a corner of his mouth twisted upwards.</p><p>The laughter that bursts out of her is wet and transforms into a half-sob before it’s fully out of her chest. The hand comes back to rest on her shoulder and she becomes aware that they’re pressed a little bit too close together behind the cardboard. Mycroft Holmes is the same build as his brother — long and lanky and too tall — but he doesn’t move.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Dr. Hooper,” he says. It’s the right words but they sound strange, coming from his mouth, as if he’s never said them before. “I don’t know how useful you might find them, but I offer my condolences.”</p><p>She nods and tries to say something, but her throat feels too full for words. She keeps wiping at her tears, sure that they’re the last of them, but they <em> keep coming</em>, in bursts that swell up from her chest and run down her cheeks. She’s choking slightly, trying not to sob too indecently in front of a man she barely knows, and her cheeks feel rubbed raw. </p><p>He crouches next to her and waits, a hand firmly on the small of her back. He doesn’t hug her or do anything else of the sort, but the small press of his fingers against her dress is a centering force. She heaves a few more times, each tear jerked out of her, before her chest calms and she feels the strange lightheaded peace that follows deranged crying. </p><p>“Why — why are you here, Mr. Holmes?” she asks. </p><p>“You saved my brother,” he says simply. “There was a debt. And —” He raises a hand to her as she protests, her voice squeaky through the hiccups, “And — no one should have to bury their father alone.”</p><p>Molly falls silent at that. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hears a voice asking sensible, necessary questions:<em> How did he find out about the funeral? How does he know I’m alone? What else does he know about me? </em></p><p>But over it, ringing louder, is an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. <em> Thank god</em>, she thinks. <em> Thank god I don’t have to.  </em></p><p>He smiles at her and offers a hand to lift her to her feet. “My brother is unfortunately blessed with an appalling sense of propriety,” he says. “He should be here as well, but he’s busy chasing a smuggling ring. I hope you’ll accept the condolences I offer in his stead.”</p><p>Molly nods, her face flushed. “Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis,” she says. “Sherlock came by.”</p><p>He’d cornered her in the canteen, tried to flirt with her to persuade her to break the rules<em> again</em>, just for him, and she’d been too exhausted and worn out from seeing her dad in hospice to fight him. Watching him dance around the bodies and torture DI Dimmock would have been amusing in another lifetime, when her dad wasn’t breathing through a tube and drifting in and out of consciousness without recognizing his only daughter. </p><p>Mycroft’s mouth is a grim line, as if he knows what she’s thinking. “I do apologize for whatever crassness you were forced to endure from him.” </p><p>She gives him a shrug, shaking her head. “It’s Sherlock. I understand.”</p><p>He smiles at her again, something soft in it, and inclines his head. It’s a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgement and exasperated fondness at his brother, and Molly feels abruptly shy, as if witnessing something intimate and rare. Mycroft Holmes seems like a nice man, but he also seems like the sort who prizes a stiff upper lip — and knowing Sherlock, probably a limited emotional spectrum. Fondness feels almost too strong, coming from him. </p><p>Still, she’s grateful for his presence when she returns to the main church sanctuary and greets the small number of guests, and she sees Mycroft standing in the back, cutting a tall lonely figure with his (expensive) black coat, his (expensive) black umbrella. When it’s her turn to speak about her dad, she manages to get through the majority of her sentences without having a complete breakdown, and Mycroft nods at her ever so slightly. </p><p>He waits for her until the crowd has depleted and people have stopped coming up to her to shake her hand, to tell her how sorry they are. Stamford comes and tells her to take the next week off, but she just smiles at and says she’s fine, she’ll see him on Monday. Greg comes, his face filled with the stress of his impending divorce, but he’s also genuinely sorry and full of goodwill, asking if there’s anything he can do. She smiles and tells him it’s fine, she hopes things work out with his wife. He shrugs, casting a gaze around. “Sherlock didn’t make it?” he says. </p><p>She shakes her head. “No, but it’s fine,” she replies, and she looks towards Mycroft. “It really is fine.”</p><p>Others come to tell her that her dad was a good man, a great man, a stalwart figure in the community — <em> no he wasn’t, </em> she wants to say to them. <em> He owned a fish and chips shop and had reasonably good happy hour prices every week night</em>, she wants to say. <em> He died from late stage stomach cancer. He didn’t do anything heroic or noteworthy — but he was my dad.  </em></p><p>When the last of the crowd is gone, she sits in the first row of pews, feeling pale and cold and drained. Her feet hurt after standing in kitten heels all day, and she’s an uncomfortable mix of hot and freezing, and her head hurts from all the crying and the dehydration and somewhere, she knows that this is the week she begins her period. She leans forward, shoving her eyes into her palms until she sees explosions of nonexistent lights spotting her vision. </p><p>“Dr. Hooper,” says a voice, gentle. “Have you eaten today?”</p><p>She looks up. Mycroft stands over her, leaning on his umbrella. </p><p>“No,” she says, her voice a croak. “But I’m not hungry.”</p><p>Mycroft shakes his head and reaches out a hand. “Please,” he says. “I insist.”</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft drives a nondescript black sedan to a little pub outside of Islington. It’s clean and warm but not so posh that she’s uncomfortable; it reminds her a little of her dad’s shop. </p><p>She doesn’t realize she’s said this aloud until the car’s stopped and she turns to see Mycroft staring at her, his brow slightly furrowed. “Should we go somewhere else?” he asks carefully. </p><p>“Oh,” she says. “Oh, no. It’s fine. It really is fine. I just…” The tears, in all of their horror, are looming again. “My dad sold fish and chips,” she whispers around them.</p><p>Mycroft nods. The two sit in the car, his hands still on the steering wheel, as Molly waits for the tears to pass, to pull herself together. Finally, she breathes out and laughs a little. “It’s fine,” she says again. “Let’s go.”</p><p>In the pub, he orders two sandwiches, some chips, and a beer. “Two beers,” she amends, and he looks at her with the same furrow in his brow. </p><p>“You’re dehydrated,” he states. “I don’t think it’ll be good for you to ingest alcohol.”</p><p>She fixes him with a blank stare. “Today, of all days, I get to drink without worrying about the consequences,” she tells him, and the corner of his mouth goes up again, and he concedes by raising his hands upwards towards the ceiling. </p><p>She’s halfway through her sandwich when she hears him still calling her Dr. Hooper. “Just call me Molly, please,” she says. “The only people who call me Dr. Hooper are some of the constables who come with Lestrade.”</p><p>He pauses mid-sip. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Most people don’t even know I am a doctor. I don’t exactly have patients.”</p><p>He turns his head and considers her, his eyes unreadable in the dimmer lighting. “You must call me Mycroft,” he says finally. “If I get to call you Molly.”</p><p>“Are you sure <em> you </em> don’t mind?” she asks. “You seem like an important person.” </p><p>His face grows amused at that. “How so?”</p><p>Molly puts down her sandwich. “You have an assistant, with whom you apparently share phone numbers. You wear nice suits. You had a crowd of men in black suits take Sherlock away, that last time. And you found out about my dad’s funeral, somehow, and you came without an invitation, which means you have access to information. Information that was probably easy to find, but nevertheless, I think you’re important, and Mr. Holmes is a good title for you.” </p><p>He raises his beer. “Touché. But please, call me Mycroft. I’m only a minor civil servant; there are no titles involved.”</p><p>She highly doubts the supposed modesty of his occupation, but she lets it go as she clinks her glass against his in agreement. The rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough, all things considered — her father’s funeral considered — and she learns that Sherlock and Mycroft are from, predictably, disgustingly posh backgrounds. </p><p>“So why the fascination with crime?” she asks. “He had a public school education and became a graduate chemist but he wanted to be a detective?”</p><p>“Why do <em> you </em> work in a morgue?” he shoots back. “You could have become a GP, but you chose forensic pathology."</p><p>She sits back, thinking. The bar is starting to quiet down; it’s getting later in the night. </p><p>“Some people think it’s grotesque, you know,” she says finally. “They think all I see are dead bodies and the horrible ways they’ve died. They think no one in their right mind could want that. But I like to think that I’m just playing witness to their life, to everything that built up so that this person could die, at that exact time, in that exact place. Or sometimes, playing witness to the fact that things went wrong, that there was a mistake and they shouldn’t have died, not like that. That’s probably more important.” She peers at Mycroft, who’s gone quiet. </p><p>“It’s also peaceful in a morgue. There’s not as much hullabaloo.” </p><p>His expression breaks at that, into a grin that flashes momentarily across his face. It’s wide and disarming, a stark contrast from the careful microexpressions she’s been seeing all night. It makes her laugh too, and she wonders for a moment if it’s okay for her to feel this way, to be amused and slightly befuddled by one-too-many drinks, even as she feels the pain of her dad rearing sharp in her gut. </p><p>Mycroft’s smile is like a warm blanket thrown over the knife of the grief. “May we all be blessed with such peace and quiet,” he says. “Especially those of us at the mercy of someone like my brother.” </p><p>“I’ll drink to that,” she says, and the warm feeling only looms larger. </p><p>In the end, they leave the pub after it closes. Mycroft drives her home as she nods off in the front seat. She never told him the address but he pulls up in front of her building all the same, and she smiles when she sees it. </p><p>“Important,” she says. “I told you, important man.”</p><p>He smiles back and helps her out of the car, up the stairs, all the way to the front of her flat. On the door stoop, he extends a hand.</p><p>“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hooper.”</p><p>“Molly,” she says, forming the words carefully. “Thank you, Mycroft.” She focuses on his face and feels an abrupt fondness for it. He’s a mysterious, important man, but he’s also a nice man. There are not many of those in her life. </p><p>She grasps his fingers. His hand is dry and warm, caging her own. He is much taller than her, she realizes. She barely reaches his shoulder. </p><p>If she had been less drunk, less grieving, less delirious from exhaustion and the emotional trauma of burying her father, she would have been horrified at her impudence, but at this moment, she is drunk and sad and terribly tired. So she doesn’t think too much about it when she pulls on his hand so that Mycroft’s face is jerked lower towards her own, and she kisses him on his cheek. </p><p>“Thank you,” she says again in a half-whisper. “Truly.” </p><p>She lets go of his hand after another half-second, a thumb grazing the inside of her palm, and then she unlocks her door and goes inside. The last thing she sees before the door closes is Mycroft’s face, filled with an expression that she doesn’t quite understand. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Sexual assault.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The morning after is terrible.</p><p>She’s had hangovers before, but she’s never really had a grief hangover — not like this. Molly has cried over breakups and downed bottles of wine like any other person, but she also never forgets to drink half a gallon of water and take two ibuprofen pills before heading to bed. She lies with her head thumping horribly, her mouth a desert. </p><p>Her phone beeps.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Please open the door when you’re ready. - Anthea</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Molly stares at the message, her dehydrated brain processing the information slowly, before she jerks herself out of bed and pulls on a dressing gown, trying not to dry heave all over herself. She stumbles to the door, pointedly avoiding the mirror.</p><p>There’s a bag on her doorstep, filled with enough water and medicine to stock an apocalypse shelter. A small Post-It flutters on top of it all, the handwriting precise but impatient. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My condolences again, Molly. I took the liberty of also filing for your temporary absence from work for the next week. Please take the time necessary, and consider this as part of my thanks for all that you’ve done for my brother. - MH</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The initials — same as her own, she clocks vaguely, unimportantly — activates something in her brain again and it churns, however slowly, to recall the last part of her previous night. The brief press of her lips on his cheek, and Mycroft’s face before she closed the door.</p><p>Molly wraps the dressing gown tighter around herself, for fear that she’ll open it and see the entirety of her limbs painted scarlet.</p><p>She spends the rest of the morning crawling back in bed, taking the ibuprofen and chugging water until the alcohol leaves her system, and decidedly <em> not </em> thinking about anything else besides her headache. By evening, she feels better enough to eat some toast and feed Toby, who is wailing inconsolably by his food dispenser, and she stares at the note again, tracing the undoubtedly fine, bluebottle ink on the more common yellow paper. </p><p>There are equal parts relief and disappointment to his words “consider this as part of my thanks.” It’s not like she had expectations; he was a nice man who wanted to do something nice for her because she was there to stab a syringe into his not-breathing brother. Repaying a debt; emotional labor for another kind of emotional labor. It's an easy, clean transaction. So it’s fine — of course it’s fine. </p><p>As the hours churn over and she watches the clock tick into midnight, one, two, three in the morning, the grief that she’s been suppressing all day starts to stab somewhere around her insides. The warm glow of the pub, Mycroft’s unexpected smile, even the horrific hangover — they were a temporary balm. In the dark of her flat, the full scale of her loss creeps out of the shadows and hangs over her until there’s a vacuum left in her chest.</p><p>Her dad’s gone. </p><p>It hums like a drumbeat behind the rotation of tasks she needs to do in the next few days, tasks she cycles through in her mind like a chant. <em> File the death certificate at his insurance company, at the phone company, at the electric and gas company, cancel the rest of his credit cards, close accounts, list the shop for sale, sort through the rest of his things, give most of it away, sort through his mail, cancel subscriptions, close his email, write thank you notes, </em> delete his name from her phone —</p><p>She pulls her knees up closer to her chest, as if it’ll prevent the collapse, and she waits for the sun to come back up. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Take the days off, Molly. I mean it. - MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Are you watching my door? - Molly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Technically, no. - MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So, yes. I told you, an important man. Scary man. - Molly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Get some rest, Dr. Hooper. - MH </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>She takes the days off, even though a part of her is screaming at her to go back to work, to drown herself in it. She wades through the necessary duties of the left behind, making phone calls and cutting up her dad’s wallet and talking to a lawyer and a realtor about his will. When she’s standing in the middle of the fish-and-chip shop, signing away the lease, something rolls off her face and splashes on the contract. </p><p>An hour later, the realtor returns with a non-saline-sodden document and eyes her worriedly. </p><p>“You sure you’re going to be alright?” she asks, not unkindly. She’s a short woman with thick blonde curls and even thicker legs, but there’s a rough compassion hidden under her hardy outline. “We can do this some other time.”</p><p>“No,” Molly says, blowing the rest of her tears into a pink handkerchief. “It’s fine. It’s fine.” </p><p>She goes to work the next day, grateful for the familiar scent of disinfectant and the way the harsh fluorescent lighting makes it difficult to think about anything but stiff, cold flesh. Stamford claps her on the shoulder and offers to buy her lunch; she declines, begging off on indigestion, which is not technically untrue, even if the source of her indigestion is ashy coffee gulped out of a burning Thermos. </p><p>It’s why she’s sitting in the canteen, alone, staring down at a bowl of attempted curry and wondering if the metallic taste in her mouth is from the food or from biting on her lips again, hard enough to draw blood. </p><p>“Excuse me,” says a voice, quiet and soft. A man hovers over her, slightly anxious, his brow creased and chalky. </p><p>“Do you mind if I sit here?”</p><p>She stares up at him blankly, wondering if the chalk is an actual product or if he just hasn’t properly cleaned his face, when she realizes that he’s still standing there, waiting for her answer.</p><p>“Oh. Oh, sorry. Yes, please. Sit down.”</p><p>He’s bashful and shy but not terribly awkward, and he makes her laugh three times during the hour they eat lunch together. He keeps staring at her when he thinks she’s not looking, and the attention is frightening but not displeasing. Best of all, he doesn’t ask her about her dad; he barely asks her about anything other than Sherlock, a topic he’s latched onto from other gossip he’s heard around the office. When he asks for her number, she gives it to him, not thinking that he’ll actually use it. </p><p>She sees the text later, after she’s gotten out of the shower and is contemplating a bottle of wine. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Get home okay? - Jim</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s strangely intimate, as if they’ve known each other for a while and haven’t just met in a canteen next to a morgue. It’s the sort of text you send someone after a long day out together — a friend, someone you love. </p><p>Her heart hurts so much that she gasps and sinks to her mattress, staring at her phone with tears brimming in her eyes for the 1,000th time that day. She misses her dad. She misses knowing that she is not all alone in the world, that there is someone who misses her in return. Jim — she can’t even remember his last name, god — Jim’s text feels like an anchor in the midst of the pain. It doesn’t feel smart or in any way healthy, but there’s a feeling of momentum in her gut and she reaches for her phone. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I got home fine. How are you? - Molly </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They text on and off for the next few days. Jim is smart and wickedly funny, making crass observations about his coworkers in the IT department, some of which are almost borderline cruel. It bothers her until she realizes that she doesn’t really know anyone else in his department and he’s probably the sort to get pushed around for being too quiet and is too smart to just let it go. He asks her if she’s doing okay, that he heard about her dad and is sorry, but he doesn’t overdo the condolences. It’s an immense relief in the midst of skirting around Greg’s sympathy and Dr. Watson’s pity; Sherlock also has a brief, horrible moment where he tells her solemnly, “I’m sorry,” when they’re alone in the lab one night. </p><p>“Your brother came to the funeral,” she tells him. “I was very grateful.”</p><p>Sherlock makes a noise that’s almost entirely disgust. “He doesn’t know to keep his long nose out of other people’s business,” he says. “Feel free to tell him to buzz off next time.”</p><p>She shrugs, wiping down the lab bench and removing beakers from the middle of Sherlock’s potentially explosive experiment. “I think he’s nice.”</p><p>The scoff is scathing and he deigns to look at her over the microscope, his face wrinkling in exasperation over her apparent stupidity. “<em>Nice</em>? You think my brother is nice?” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Most dangerous man in England, and <em> nice,</em> she calls him, like he’s some neighborhood grocer…”</p><p>Like with a lot of what Sherlock says these days, she ignores him.</p><p>Mycroft hasn’t texted her since he inadvertently revealed that someone had been watching her house. She thinks she should reach out first, to say thank you for all that he’s done and maybe offer to buy coffee, but Jim is occupying most of her thoughts lately. He asks her out to lunch a few times, each time leaving her with a kiss on the cheek, and then one afternoon, tired of chasteness and of sitting alone in her flat during the night, trying not to accidentally call her dad’s disconnected mobile for the hundredth time, Molly asks him to dinner. </p><p>Jim recommends a place near the British Museum, small and back-alley and interesting. At the bar, he orders her something pink and scented with cherry syrup so sweet that her teeth ache. “I prefer G&amp;Ts,” she says, but he doesn’t seem to hear her, and he gets a vodka tonic for himself.</p><p>He’s in a strange mood, distracted and jumpy. He keeps checking his phone and giggling to himself, texting rapidly back and forth with someone. At one point, he leaves her alone for twenty minutes to take a phone call, and she waits with a knot building in her stomach. She doesn’t touch her drink.</p><p>Finally, he sits down and settles in front of her, his face apologetic. “I’m sorry, there’s just been an incident with work...nothing to do with you, of course.” </p><p>She shrugs, annoyed but not enough to leave. “I understand. Do you have to go back to the office? It’s fine if we wrap up here.”</p><p>He shakes his head, his face crumpling further into something like mortification. “No. God, no, sorry. You must think I’m a complete arse.” He waves his phone and makes a show of turning it off. “There. Now you have my full and undivided attention.”</p><p>His accompanying grin is sweet enough for her to take the first sip of her drink and to let him hold her hand over the table, his teeth glinting from the wavering candlelight. She leans into the feeling, dispelling any other thoughts at the back of her mind. When he finally kisses her outside the bar, he tastes like tobacco and vodka and something else bitter, and she tries not to mind when he grabs her shoulder a little too forcefully, when he yanks on her hair as he leans her up against the wall and bites at her lower lip. </p><p>“You like it rough, don’t you, Mols?” His voice is guttural, worlds away from what it was when he asked to sit with her at the canteen. There’s a spark in it that sounds vaguely like laughter, mocking and cruel. </p><p>“I—” Her heart’s beating a little too fast, and she’s not sure if the zip down her spine is pleasure or fear, but <em> god</em>, it’s been so long since she’s been kissed. When she doesn’t reply, he crowds her in, a hand slammed behind her, and he nips and tugs and <em> pulls </em>until she’s left gasping.</p><p>“Jesus, Jim,” she breathes out, tasting blood. Behind him, a car flashes by, the headlights hitting his face from the side. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he stares back at her, and she spots something manic and unnerving move across his face like an electric current. The bottom of her stomach drops out. <em> It’s Jim, Jim from IT</em>, she tells herself. <em> Just Jim. </em></p><p>He presses in closer, dropping his face into the crook of her neck. “Sorry,” he murmurs against her skin, not sounding sorry at all. There’s something hungry in his voice, like he wants something from her. She’s abruptly aware now of how enclosed she is, how she can feel him growing hard between her legs, how he’s grinding slightly against her.  </p><p>And then just like that, when the adrenaline and the rush edges into the beginning of a panic, he moves away. The back of her neck prickles with the sudden temperature change and she shivers, wrapping an arm around herself. Jim eyes her, his face flushed and his lips swollen.</p><p>“It’s getting late. Do you want to go somewhere else?”</p><p>“No,” she says, the word coming before she can get her bearings to think. “No, I mean — I should get home. Sorry.”</p><p>His face is impassive, half hidden in the dark, and it takes a split second for her to register the pounding in her head as fear before he smiles and takes her hand. “I’ll help you get a cab.” </p><p>When she gets home, she throws up the pink drink and dabs at the small rip on the corner of her mouth. As she examines herself in the mirror — pale, rings under her eyes, looking a little sick — she tries to recall Jim from the day he sat with her at the canteen, Jim at lunch. </p><p><em> He’s a sweet guy </em> , she tells herself firmly. <em> He just got a little excited today. You’re just on the edge because of your dad, because you haven’t been with a guy for a while.  </em></p><p><em> It’s fine. </em>It’s fine. It’s fine.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>(Later, when she sits alone with the truth heavy on her brow, she tries not to think about the fact that if you have to tell yourself “it’s fine” three separate times, then things are probably just the opposite, they are probably not fine at all.)</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Molly wakes to the news that Sherlock’s flat has blown up, and then all hell breaks loose. </p><p>The best that she can gather from Sherlock bursting into her lab with a pair of trainers and Dr. Watson’s interrupted explanations is that there’s someone being held hostage unless Sherlock can trace the shoes to an unsolved murder from over twenty years ago. Greg also comes in looking like someone dropped a bomb on him, his face a reconstructed mess of misery, and they wait outside the lab and chat about his inevitable stress ulcer and the lunatic who’s on the same level of insanity as Sherlock. Eventually, Greg’s phone beeps and he runs out again, swearing at a poor PC who can’t trace a call to the hostage, and Molly winces at his back in sympathy.</p><p>She waits for another minute, tracing a finger on the outlines of her phone in her front pocket. Molly has never believed in leaving a text unread, much less without a response, but every time she thinks about the message burning a hole through her phone, there’s a sickening feeling in her stomach and a sharp twinge in the cut on her bottom lip. She pulls her phone out and stares at the text again, her hand hovering over the keyboard.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hi, Mols. I enjoyed myself yesterday. Do you want to go out again tonight? There’s this great place called the Fox, I’d love to take you. I’m in the mood to indulge. X - Jim </em>
</p><p> </p><p>This was what she’d wanted, for him to be more assertive and to take the relationship a bit further. He obviously likes her, and she had no real objection to him — it was nice to feel desired, to be wanted, to be <em> distracted</em>. So there’s no real reason to say no...so how can she say no?</p><p>She closes her phone, shoving the text into her lab coat and out of sight, and she breathes out slowly, trying to quell the anxiety blooming in her stomach. She waits a moment before entering the lab again, her voice a grating tone of fake cheeriness.</p><p>“Any luck?”</p><p>She barely has a chance to make it to the lab bench when the door swings open again behind her, Jim’s face poking through the gap. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t…”</p><p>Her heart starts to hammer away in her chest. “Jim! Hi. Uh, come in, come in.”</p><p>He shuffles in, his face slightly sheepish. He grins at the three of them, his eyes darting to Sherlock’s tall form in front of a microscope. </p><p>“Oh, uh. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes,” Molly begins, and then she spots something in Jim’s face — the same manic greed that appeared last night, his eyes glinting with a strange kind of gleefulness. She stares at him, trying to capture the unnerving expression as it slides on and off his features.</p><p>“And, um...sorry…” <em> What is that face? Why does he feel like a different person, like he’s slipping into a character? </em></p><p>“John Watson. Hi.” Dr. Watson stretches out a hand with a tight smile. She cringes; she didn’t mean for it to sound like she forgot his name.</p><p>“So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly’s told me all about you. You on one of your cases?” Jim slides around her to stand next to Sherlock, rubbing his hands on his jeans. </p><p>Molly offers, “Jim works in IT, upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.” Her tone is squeaky, a strange high pitch. Office romance, mundane, normal. That’s what this is. </p><p>And then Sherlock ruins it all with one condescending sniff. “Gay.”</p><p>She definitely didn’t mishear him. “Sorry, what?”</p><p>He doesn’t even look up from his microscope. “Nothing. Um, hey.”</p><p>“Hi,” Jim croons, before knocking over a metal tray that crashes to the floor. He’s a flurry of embarrassed motion, scrambling to scrape it back up, and Molly sees Dr. Watson turn away as if in pain. Something clicks in her brain and she feels suddenly hot, <em> fucking humiliated. </em></p><p>“Well, I’d better be off,” Jim says casually, coming back to her side. “I’ll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?” His hand slides up possessively between her shoulder blades but he’s still staring at Sherlock, something like longing in his face. </p><p>“Bye, it was nice to meet you.” </p><p>Sherlock doesn’t respond, and the silence is oppressive until Dr. Watson (kind, respectful, even when his name is forgotten) clears his throat. “You too.”</p><p>Jim smiles and nods at Molly, his eyes dark. She watches him leave with her chest constricting into a painful knot, before turning to Sherlock.</p><p>“What do you mean gay?” she demands. She thinks about the way he kissed her, the way he got hard and made her feel trapped. “We’re together.” </p><p>Sherlock looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, but he turns to her anyways, his eyes raking over her. “And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.”</p><p>Her face twitches. “Two and a half.”</p><p>“No, three.” </p><p>Her ears are ringing. If he’s gay...what was last night? Why were her instincts screaming at her? Why did she see something else, something horrible, in the way Jim looked at her and then at Sherlock? She wants Sherlock to see it too, to tell her what’s actually happening — it doesn’t feel like something so trivial as <em> gay.  </em></p><p>Somewhere, Dr. Watson is saying Sherlock’s name with a warning tone — kind, respectful, <em> pitying</em>. </p><p>“He’s not gay,” she says, her voice the same kind of high-pitched as before. “Why do you have to spoil...he’s not.” </p><p>“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock’s at his most infuriating, so sure of himself and so missing the point that she wants to scream. </p><p>“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? <em> I </em> put product in my hair,” Dr. Watson protests.</p><p>“You wash your hair, there’s a difference,” Sherlock says smoothly. “No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber’s eyes, and then there’s his underwear.”</p><p>“His underwear?” Molly’s voice has gone soft. </p><p>“Visible above the waistline, very visible, very particular brand,” he continues. “That — plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here. And I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.”</p><p>She stares at the scrap of paper in his hand, the evidence undeniable. He had always been keen to talk about Sherlock...perhaps she was just an avenue to get to meet him at the lab. But there’s something so off about this situation, something that makes the back of her neck crawl. The tear in her lip stings. </p><p>She turns around without responding, slamming her way out of the lab. Behind her, she hears Dr. Watson’s derisive tone. “Charming, well done.” The pity is worse. </p><p>She’s halfway to the IT office when her phone beeps. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just to confirm: the Fox at 6? Sorry, I didn’t check with you earlier; I went to the lab to ask you when you didn’t reply. X - Jim</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her footsteps slow. She stares at her mobile, her brain settling into a quieter hum of doubt. If Jim’s entire objective was to use her to get close to Sherlock — well, he’s accomplished it by now. There’s no need for him to follow up. Right?</p><p>She stands still in the hallway, her fingers hovering over the keypad. She doesn’t have to barge into the office and confront him now; she could bring it up later, when they’ve both got a few drinks in and the atmosphere is relaxed enough so that he doesn’t feel too attacked. </p><p>The more sensible part of her brain, the part that’s a bit too small compared to the other bits of herself, chimes in agreement. She leans against the wall, her breath slowing, and she texts back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sure. I’ll see you at 6. - Molly </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>The Fox is a nightclub in Walthamstow, located in the basement of a rundown brick building whose first floor is occupied by an all night pizzeria. There’s nothing marking the entrance except for a sticker with a cartoon fox, grinning at them as they push their way past the crowd. It’s definitely seedier than the last place; Molly spots a few furtive exchanges of bags and bills. Jim looks back at her, his grin sharp. </p><p>“What’d you think?”</p><p>She thinks that she’s horribly out of place, a bit too old and definitely wearing the wrong clothes. She didn’t have time to go back to her flat after her shift ended, so she’s in a pale blue jumper and a pair of run down trainers. A few of the clubbers stare at her curiously as they pass, the space under their eyes streaked with glowing paint. </p><p>“Erm,” she says, as Jim elbows his way to the bar. “Could we, maybe, go somewhere a bit more quiet?”</p><p>He glances back at her, his eyes cold. “Sorry? I couldn’t hear.” </p><p>She swallows and waves her hand. “No, never mind. Later.”</p><p>He brings back a row of tequila shots and an aquamarine drink, something flavored with green melon. She feels sick as she looks at it fizzing like some alien substance under the torrent of flashing neon lights. </p><p>“Mols.” Jim is next to her, murmuring. His body’s pressed up close so she can smell the powder on his face, the cheap cologne that he’s taken to wearing. His tongue snakes out, licking the rim of her ear, and she gasps. </p><p>“I could just eat you,” he purrs. “I could cut you up into something bite-sized.” He tilts his head towards her, kissing a trail from her ear to the corner of lips, before dipping down into the crevice of her neck. A hand traces from her back to her leg, sliding towards her inner thigh.</p><p>Molly jerks back, her body instinctively seizing into itself. “N-no,” she stutters out. Her breath is coming in too fast; she’s near panic, she can tell. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t.”</p><p>Jim’s eyes are dark. He looks at her with a blank expression, his lips a crimson slash across his pale face. “I thought you liked it,” he says dully. </p><p>She looks down at the table, trying to center herself on the grimy wooden surface away from the flashing lights. She knows how desperately, horrifically <em> uncool </em>this is, how she probably seems like a middle-aged prude who’s been out of the game too long and is too strange and too stupid — but Jim is also acting strangely, as if he’s toying with her, as if this is a game where only he knows the rules. She doesn’t know him well at all, she realizes, and her stomach turns over.</p><p>His hand creeps onto her shoulder again; Jim hasn’t backed away. He’s still too close, his breath warm against her face. “Come on, Mols. Be a sport. Don’t you want me to just <em> take </em>you, out back?” He giggles, his face blurring in the dark.</p><p>“Are you gay?” she blurts, her voice high and absurd. It does the trick; he stops abruptly, his features frozen. He blinks once at her before he laughs, high-pitched and terrible. </p><p>“Did Sherlock Holmes tell you that?” he howls. “Did he really?” </p><p>Molly shudders as Jim corners her further, his body pressed completely against hers. An outsider would imagine the worst about the places where Jim’s hand is touching, stroking; they would be completely right. Molly feels frozen, struck dumb. Her voice is somewhere in her chest, struggling to emerge from her throat.</p><p>“Do you still think I’m gay?” he groans against her. “But it doesn’t matter, does it Mols, not when you’re so fucking delicious, you and all of your<em> feelings</em>, I could take them all apart —” He moves his hand up to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. </p><p>And then — and then he grins, big and wide, his teeth gleaming red, orange, green, blue, violet, a flurry of colors dancing across his incisors. Molly feels something slide across her face; her eyes are wet, leaking, and Jim is still smiling. She is afraid, a proper fear,<em> a terror, </em>because she realizes, as Jim is grinning at her with pure, incandescent manic joy, that this man would hurt her, that he would do it because he would enjoy it, and he is smiling at her fear. </p><p>
  <em> I could cut you up into something bite-sized. </em>
</p><p>Her hands move before her brain catches up, and she finds herself shoving Jim hard into the table. Before he can react, before she can see the expression on his face, she grabs her bag and forces her way into the crowd, her heart pounding out of her chest, into her ears, and the fear that she is feeling must be emanating from every part of her — how could anyone pass her without feeling it, without knowing that she is so fucking scared? Her brain is thumping:<em> get out, get out, get out, </em>get out. </p><p>It isn’t until she’s out the door and in a taxi, her leg banging into the corner of the door in her hurry to get in, that she realizes she isn’t breathing. She sucks in a lungful of stale, tobacco-laden air, and then a few more, and then she realizes she is breathing too hard, too fast, and her face is wet —</p><p>“Jesus, are you alright, love?”</p><p>The driver is looking at her from the rearview mirror with mild consternation and concern. “Do you need a hospital?”</p><p>Molly shakes her head, her breath coming in gasps. “No — no, I’m fine. I’m fine.” </p><p>
  <em> It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. </em>
</p><p>Already, with a mile between her and the Fox, she can feel her brain reassessing. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe she overreacted. He didn’t actually do anything bad, it was just...he just got a little handsy. Maybe he was just excited. Maybe he didn’t mean any harm, she was just too sensitive. It’s her problem, not his. </p><p>None of this means her hands stop shaking or that her voice is any louder than a whisper as she leaves the taxi and stumbles into her flat. She slides against the door, her bag and keys dropping next to her, and she stays in the cold of her entranceway with her head cradled in her palms.</p><p>When she opens her eyes and finally peels her hands away from her face, her body aches from being curled up against the hard linoleum. Her jaw hurts from clenching her teeth; she desperately wants a drink of water. She wants to feel warm, she wants to stop feeling like there’s a snake coiling around her skin. She wants — she wants — she wants to talk to her dad. </p><p>When she was younger, when they still lived in the West Midlands in a small house with a yard and a dog, her dad used to carry her on his shoulders until she felt like she could never come down again, because she was so accustomed to seeing the world from this particular line of sight. How could she live in a world where everything loomed so large when, with a quick sweep and belly-aching laughter, she could rise above it all and feel so safe and warm, kissed by a sun that was now intimately closer? </p><p>Her eyes bleary, Molly reaches for her phone. She ticks down the contacts to see her dad’s number — and then after it, Mycroft Holmes.</p><p>Holmes. Important man. Scary man, but nice.</p><p>Not a lot of those in her life.</p><p>She’s definitely too emotionally fragile and terrified and not in her right mind to be texting him, but she taps out a message regardless. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hi Mycroft. Sorry to bother you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I hope you’re doing well. Just wanted to say thank you again for taking me home after my dad’s funeral. You didn’t have to do that. Any of it. There’s no debt; I would have done what I did for Sherlock for anyone else. Medically obliged, Hippocrates, you know.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry to bother you again, just...I’m just a bit shaken up.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - Molly</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She clicks send without thinking about it, because if she can’t text her dad or anyone else who might give a damn about her, she might as well text some strange, important man who was nice to her once. She needs to feel like there’s someone out there who might care. </p><p>Without thinking about it, without any expectation, she shuts her phone down and crawls off the entranceway. She takes a scalding hot shower, hot enough so that she can’t still feel Jim’s hands on her back and her legs and her face, and then she crawls into bed and shuts her eyes and refuses to think, refuses to remember, refuses to do anything else but drift into a long, restless sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Mentions of sexual assault.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Molly, what happened? - MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Are you alright? - MH </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Hooper, please answer this text if you are able to respond. - Anthea </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anthea is on her way. I’m unfortunately preoccupied, but she will be able to help. - MH </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hello, darling. So sorry about the way things ended last night. Hope you’re okay. Looking forward to seeing you soon. X - Jim  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>There is a knock on her door.</p><p>Molly spends a good five minutes trying to ignore it, but the knocker is insistent. Eventually, she wraps a robe around herself and stands in the doorway, a hand on the knob. </p><p>“Who is it?”</p><p>“Hello, Mols. It’s me.”</p><p>Something in her stomach goes ice cold and she stands there, frozen, her eyes wide. There’s a pause behind the door, and she can see Jim, small and fox-like with a grin playing around his lips, waiting for her.</p><p>“Will you open the door for me?”</p><p>Her hand is still on the knob. She thinks about the lock on her door, so pathetically ancient and useless, and she forces down the thought, shaking her head at her own hysteria. She looks at her hand, looks at the doorknob, and it’s a simple action — twist, pull. Jim might be here to apologize, and maybe he’ll stop acting so differently, and she can put this behind her. As simple as that, as easy as that. This doesn’t have to be so difficult. </p><p>“<em> Come on </em>, Mols.” His voice creeps into a small whine, as if she’s denying him a treat that he’s been entitled to, but there’s also an edge to the high-pitch of his demand. She wonders about the lock again, if she’s paranoid enough to think that he’ll actually break in. </p><p>“This isn’t fun if you do it this way,” he pants, and then there’s a small thud. </p><p>Molly takes her hand off the knob like she’s been burned and starts to back away. Her mind is racing. What if he does break in? What if he comes in and — what does he want? Sex? Why now? He could have followed her home last night, why come now?</p><p>She has a can of mace in her bag in her bedroom, a gift from Greg when she told him about taking the Tube near closing hours because of her sporadic shifts. She thinks about grabbing it, pulling it out and telling Jim to leave if he does break in, spraying it in his face and seeing him howl in pain, because this is all her fault and if only she had just not engaged, not texted, not gone out to coffee, and oh god she needs to call the police, why can’t she just say something and make him stop —</p><p>There’s a click of expensive heels outside of her door. Her doorknob stops jiggling and she can hear Jim giggle, his voice barely audible. “Oh, <em>hello</em>.”</p><p>There’s a silence, and then Jim says, his voice clear and high and amused, “Touché, Molly. Thanks for the laughs. It’s been fun.” </p><p>She hears footsteps falling away, going down the stairwell, and quiet behind the door. Her hands won’t stop shaking and there is a breeze on the back of her neck, a reminder of the thing that has slid past, barely missing her. </p><p>“Dr. Hooper?”</p><p>The knock is softer. The woman’s voice — texter, beautiful but passive, ruthless efficiency in every inch of her impeccable attire — is quiet. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to check that you’re alright.”</p><p>Molly stands staring stupidly, her hands clenched so tight in front of her that she can’t feel the end of her fingers. <em> Anthea, </em> she thinks dimly. <em> Mycroft. </em></p><p>She opens the door.</p><p>Anthea stands with her arms crossed, her phone nowhere to be seen. Her face is passive as usual, but a slight furrow forms between her brows as she stares at Molly. “You weren’t answering your texts,” she says. </p><p>“I turned off my phone,” Molly replies. Her eyes skirt the corner, to be sure that Jim is gone, and her knees go a little weak in relief. Anthea holds her arm as she stumbles slightly against the door frame.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Her accent slides past the posh, brittle tones it once occupied towards something more familiar — somewhere in the West Midlands, maybe near Birmingham. Anthea grew up somewhere near she did, Molly realizes, her brain processing at half-speed. She tries to nod, but then finds that she can’t. Something wet slides down her chin. </p><p>“He didn’t hurt me,” she says, her voice hollow. “He didn’t.”</p><p>Anthea nods and reaches forward, a hand grasping her shoulder. She steps inside, the door clicking shut, and she slowly guides Molly to the kitchen, where she sits with her hands clenched and a steady stream of tears going into her lab. </p><p>“Here.” Anthea has made tea; she places it in front of Molly, hot and steaming. Her hands finally unclench and she wraps them gratefully around the mug. </p><p>“Is he an ex-boyfriend?” Anthea asks after a long silence, a gentle disruption. </p><p>Molly shakes her head and then stops. “N-no. We’ve been seeing each other for the last few weeks but…” How could she explain this? It’s gnawing at her stomach, this feeling that there is actually nothing wrong, that she is delusional, that all of her fears are worthless. </p><p>“He didn’t hurt me,” she begins again, but Anthea stops her with a small touch of her wrist. </p><p>“Did he make you feel unsafe?” she asks. There’s a hard glint in her eyes but her touch is gentle. </p><p>Molly nods, once. </p><p>“Did he do something you didn’t like?” she asks again. </p><p>Another nod.</p><p>“And he didn’t stop?”</p><p>Molly looks down at her lap, her eyes brimming. “He didn’t stop,” she whispers. </p><p>Anthea draws back. Her mouth is a grim line, set against the squareness of her jaw. “I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>She stays with Molly for a few more hours, sitting at the table and pouring her new mugs of tea when they grow cold in front of her. She asks, briefly, if Molly is willing to file charges, if Molly will give her a name, but Molly shakes her head.</p><p>“He didn’t actually do anything,” she says after a long silence. Her voice sounds strange in her own ears. “There would be nothing to prove besides a bad gut feeling, and that’s not admissible in court.”</p><p>“I’m not talking about going to court.” Anthea’s voice is dangerously soft. “We can take care of it.”</p><p>Important man, important people. Dangerous people. </p><p>Molly looks up, her gaze wild. “You wouldn’t — you wouldn’t<em> kill him</em>?” she croaks. </p><p>A corner of Anthea’s lips goes up. “No, we wouldn’t kill him. But we could make sure you wouldn’t have to see him again.”</p><p>“I thought Mycroft was a minor civil servant,” Molly says, and Anthea laughs outright at that. </p><p>In the end, Molly makes Anthea promise that she’ll wait until Molly returns to work, that she’ll let her think about it. She’ll be fine, she promises, and she closes the door on Anthea’s back, her phone already out and in her palm. </p><p>“Thank you,” Molly says quietly, before the door clicks shut. She barely has a moment to see Anthea look back at her, her face impassive once again, and give her the slightest nod. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Jim is missing. </p><p>“If you have any information, let us know, would you?” His supervisor, Anne, is a tired looking woman with dark brown hair that’s been carelessly chopped at a mid-length. She comes in almost at the end of her shift, and Molly watches as she ignores her ceaselessly vibrating phone — babysitter, three kids, one toddler — and strokes the place where a ring is missing on her fourth finger. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Molly says helplessly. </p><p>Anne shrugs at her. “We thought we might as well check. Sorry to bother.” </p><p>She turns to leave, and then she looks back, her face creasing with more lines than Molly remembers seeing. “We shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s taken some stuff with him. Stuff that shouldn’t leave this hospital.” </p><p>She glances at Molly, her gaze afraid, and hesitates. “We didn’t know. He...he didn’t do anything, did he? When you were together.”</p><p><em> A bad egg is a bad egg is a bad egg. </em> This is something that they know, that women know, that keeps them asking questions long after everyone else has stopped.</p><p>“No,” Molly lies. The falsehood tastes sweet like cherry syrup, like a burst of fruit in her mouth, sickly and nauseating.  “He didn’t do anything.”</p><p>Anne nods, cocking her head as she stares over Molly’s head at the lab bench. There’s a pair of white trainers still left in the corner, abandoned. “There was an unrelated file he took too, the one reserved for the Holmes bloke. Carl Powers? You know it?”</p><p>Anxiety, spread thick over her stomach lining, lurches upwards, bitter and acidic in the back of her throat. Molly shakes her head again, her stomach turning in circles. As Anne leaves her to the silence of the lab, she feels, she keeps feeling, that something is terribly, terribly wrong, that she’s missed something huge. She pulls out her phone, hoping and praying that she is mistaken.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s gone. He hasn’t shown up to work. Did you do something? - Molly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We didn’t do anything, Molly. It’s not us. - Anthea  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He took information with him. Hospital info, important docs. He took the file on Carl Powers. - Molly  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s no response. Molly sits and waits in the hospital, her mouth growing dry. Her shift is over, she should go home, but she feels too afraid to leave. She nurses a cup of coffee growing stale, and watches the clock tick over to 11. Midnight.</p><p>This is silly, she thinks, and she packs her bag, and then her phone beeps.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Stay where you are. - MH  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>It’s almost 3 in the morning when Mycroft wakes her, gently, with a small nudge on her arm. </p><p>“Molly,” he says, and she drifts into consciousness like rising out of water, her hair floating around her face. </p><p>She blinks at him, not understanding, and then her stomach turns leaden. “Jim —” she gasps, and she has to grip Mycroft’s sleeve to steady herself. “He’s not good, he’s dangerous, I think he’s related to the cases Sherlock’s doing —”</p><p>“Molly,” Mycroft says again, holding her by the wrist. “It’s over. It’s fine. Thank you.”</p><p>She sinks back, her eyes holding onto Mycroft’s like anchors. “You found him?”</p><p>Mycroft lowers himself into the chair next to hers, his hand still on hers. His umbrella has been dropped to the floor, but he makes no move to pick it up, to let go of her hand. </p><p>“We were still too late,” he says. “But Sherlock and Dr. Watson were very lucky; he let them go. Anthea is still doing clean up, but we don’t think we’ll find him in time.” </p><p>“What is he?” she whispers, remembering the grin that was sharp as a knife, glinting in the dark.</p><p>Mycroft looks at her, his eyes roaming across the plain of her face. He seems to be weighing the truth, measuring it out in parcels to see what would be a safe amount to dispense to her, what would be better to keep. It would make her angry with anyone else, to be treated like a liability, but this is Mycroft Holmes. Important. Dangerous. </p><p>“He has been running a network of criminal operations for quite some time,” he says finally. “As such operations go, he is rather prolific. Sherlock caught onto it fairly recently, but we didn’t have a full name or a face — not until you told us about him.”</p><p>“His name is Jim?” she asks, a bit incredulous. “He didn’t give me a false name?”</p><p>Mycroft shakes his head. “The surname he told you was, obviously, a lie, but yes, his given name is Jim. Jim Moriarty.”</p><p>There’s a shudder that goes through her as she learns his full name, but there is also a bizarre and unquantifiable sense of relief — relief that she is not crazy, that every deep feeling of apprehension and dread toward Jim was founded in the fact that he was an undetected raging psychopath. </p><p>“He didn’t hurt me,” she says. “Why didn’t he hurt me?”</p><p>Mycroft is quiet, staring at the end of his umbrella on the floor. His mouth is a flat line and he shakes his head. “Did he not?” he asks, his voice low. “Anthea debriefed me. I can’t imagine your last few encounters with him were pleasant.”</p><p>Molly swallows and laughs weakly. “No, they weren’t. But...he wanted to hurt me, properly hurt me. I could have been one of the bodies in the morgue. But he waited, and then he let me go.”</p><p>The grip around her wrist tightens. Mycroft has gone very still, his face pale. It takes a moment for her to realize that this is how he looks when he is angry, when there is something that he can’t resolve despite being who he is. </p><p>“We may never know,” he says finally. “But I do think he enjoyed seeing you afraid. Perhaps that was enough for him at the moment, particularly when he was also playing his game with my brother.”</p><p>He looks at her again, studying her. Mycroft doesn’t look at her the way Sherlock does, as if he’s appraising the entire contents of her life. He looks at her like he’s already lived it with her, as if he knows what she was thinking and feeling during the moments that she wears on her skin, on her clothes. There’s a level of control in his observations, unlike the frenetic chaos that seems to roam in Sherlock’s electric gaze. It’s a steadiness in which Molly finds something like warmth. </p><p>“We made a mistake,” he says slowly. “He debased himself in his actions with you, and we thought that such debasement would be above him. We didn’t realize until it was far too late, until you warned us.”</p><p>Her breath slows. She stares back at him, at the fury that moves across his eyes. Mycroft operates with an astonishing veneer of civility and dangerous politeness, a stark contrast to Sherlock, who does his best to smash his way through every sense of propriety. The anger, however — the anger is similar. Controlled but brimming under the surface, an ever moving current that waits for the dam to creak a little too far from the velocity of the changing water. He’s a storm, she realizes. Sherlock Holmes is a lightning flash; his brother is an entire hurricane.</p><p>“In any case, I think it will be best if you stay somewhere other than your home tonight,” he says finally, the anger retreating. “I doubt Moriarty would risk coming back for you, but better to be safe.”</p><p>Molly thinks about her lock and the useless tin of her front door. She thinks about Jim thudding against it, jiggling her doorknob, and something crawls up her spine. </p><p>“I would be very grateful,” she says, and Mycroft smiles. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>The sky is a dim shade of navy, growing lighter around the edges, when Mycroft pulls up to a pristine, white columned facade near Bessborough Gardens.</p><p>Molly stares at the gold plate on the door, where <em> Wren House </em>is engraved in a delicate, curling script. “Is this —” she begins, and Mycroft pulls out a set of keys next to her. </p><p>“My private residence,” he says simply, and pulls the door open.</p><p>It’s too dark to see the inside properly, but she glimpses a door to the left that opens to a glowing study, with shelves and shelves of books surrounding two armchairs in front of a fireplace. In the corner is a treadmill, oddly out of place in the classically furnished room. </p><p>“Up the stairs and to the right, you’ll find a bedroom. I suggest you get some sleep, Molly,” Mycroft says softly, a hand guiding her back. </p><p>“What about you?” She turns at the barrister, a few steps up, and looks down. It’s an odd view — she’s become used to craning her head upwards, staring at the underside of a chin rather than the crown of a scalp. </p><p>Mycroft smiles, but his eyes are tired and his face looks worn. It looks commonplace on him, as if it’s a condition he’s grown accustomed to being. “I’ll need to meet with Anthea, be debriefed. I’m sure there’s still further processing to do. But please, don’t worry about me.”</p><p>Molly hesitates. There is an inexplicable rush of concern for the man, a desire to pull him alongside her to make sure that he also gets rest, as if he is the sort of person who allows himself to be pulled along, to be cared for. <em> Important man</em>, she reminds herself. A voice whispers back, <em> nice man</em>.</p><p>“Mycroft,” she says, and she grabs his hand before he can turn to leave. He looks back at her, an eyebrow raised. His hand is warm and so much larger than she expects it to be.</p><p>“I —” What do you tell someone who seems to be the shadowy arm of the British government, whose brother is a man like Sherlock, who <em> treats </em>someone like Sherlock as a baby brother? Molly can feel the frumpiness of her jumper, every inch of herself drenched in the kind of dull mediocrity that has Sherlock threatening to shoot himself when confronted with it. </p><p>Something in her stomach twists. She was once satisfied in just witnessing Sherlock, in standing in the background while he lay the world bare in front of her, but she feels nothing of the same satisfaction with Mycroft. She’s not quite sure what to name this feeling, except that she just wants — <em> wants, wants, wants. </em> </p><p>“I —” she says again, her mouth opening and closing. Mycroft stands patiently, waiting for her to speak. </p><p>“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice quiet but ringing through the dark and empty house. “You’re so kind. I don’t know how to repay you.”</p><p>Mycroft draws back slightly, an unfamiliar expression passing through his face. He pauses, as if unsure, and then smiles at her. It is a pitying smile, the kind given when there is a misunderstanding. </p><p>“There is no debt,” he says, echoing her words. “Not on your end. We’ve owed you twice now; think of this as the repayment to which you’re entitled.”</p><p>Molly wants to shake her head at that, to protest this stunning incomprehension of events, but he gently removes his hand from her grasp and gestures up the stairs. “Please rest. We can talk about how else to proceed in the morning.” </p><p>Mycroft Holmes is an important man, so there’s nothing more to be said as he nods at her, his face a polite mask, and turns away. She compliantly heads up the rest of the staircase, looking back only once to see the door close to the study. </p><p>The bedroom on the right of the staircase is small but quite nice, pleasantly but minimally decorated. There are a lot of books, many of them well-worn and thumbed through sci-fi novels, and a number of potted plants that occupy various corners of the room. In the center is a large bed with a plush feather mattress and sheets that obviously have an obscene thread count, and it’s here that Molly allows herself to relax entirely, all thirty hours of consciousness hitting her like a cement truck. Her body goes heavy and she sinks into the mound of pillows, and her last thought before she dreams about nothing is that the bed smells strangely familiar, a sharp note of citrus laced through sandalwood. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Molly wakes to the smell of coffee and the sound of a stunning, vicious row. </p><p>“— you don’t get to treat me like some infant under your care —”</p><p>“— if Mother and Father knew about —”</p><p>“—just stick the smug smile up your ever expanding —”</p><p>The voices stop abruptly when Molly steps too close to the staircase, a creak echoing through the hallway. Sherlock’s familiar acidic baritone says quietly, “You have a visitor?”</p><p>“Molly, are you awake?” Mycroft says in reply. </p><p>Molly slowly walks towards the barrister, cringing at the thought of Sherlock’s face. The detective is gaping up the stairwell, his face frozen in pale outrage.</p><p>“What is <em> she </em>doing here?” </p><p>“Molly, we’re sorry to wake you,” Mycroft says, ignoring his brother. “Sherlock will be leaving soon.”</p><p>“I thought you wanted me to stay,” his brother snarls, and Mycroft turns back to him, matching Sherlock’s anger with his own cold fury. </p><p>“I will never understand why you react so outrageously to simple precautions when you also insist on behaving like an overgrown prat —”</p><p>“She came out of your bloody bedroom, have you taken the only semi-competent physician in Bart’s and made her your pet —”</p><p>“<em>Watch your tongue </em> —”</p><p>“That’s <em> disgusting </em>—”</p><p>“<em>Ahem </em>.”</p><p>Anthea steps into view, balancing a kettle in one hand and her phone in the other. She looks as she always does, cool and impassive, but there’s a severity to the way her lips are pursed that would not look out of place in a schoolroom. She turns from her employer to the staircase, where Molly is still standing.</p><p>“Coffee?” she asks, and Molly nods gratefully. She pads downstairs, not daring to look in Sherlock’s direction, and slips past the two men to the kitchen, where Anthea has prepared a mug and a plate of dry toast. </p><p>From the kitchen, the voices dissolve into a flurry of angry whispers, and then a door shuts and there’s more dull shouting. Anthea steps into the kitchen with a weary look, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling when something that sounds horribly costly smashes from the other room. </p><p><em> Decanter</em>, Molly thinks. <em> Heavy, liquid, expensive.  </em></p><p>“They’re in the study now,” Anthea says with a painful smile, refilling Molly’s cup. </p><p>Molly nods and tries to eat the toast, cringing when something else — <em> whisky glass or ashtray? </em>— smashes. Anthea takes a seat across from her, her phone buzzing in her hand. </p><p>“Sleep alright?” she asks conversationally, not taking her eyes off the screen. Molly nods, swallowing the bite of toast before deciding she’s definitely not hungry.</p><p>“I...I slept in the guest room, right?” she asks. Anthea looks up, an eyebrow arched, and Molly’s stomach sinks.</p><p>“Mycroft doesn’t have guest rooms,” Anthea says. “There’s only one bed in this house.”</p><p>“Right,” Molly replies, sinking into her chair. <em> Citrus and sandalwood</em>, she thinks, and a part of her wants to die. </p><p>“In any case, we’ll be moving you to a safe house,” Anthea says smoothly, as if she hasn’t noticed Molly’s steadily reddening face. “We’ve also applied for your leave of absence, so you’re free to go anywhere you’d like. Is there a place you’d prefer? We have options available across Europe, although some people have preferred more tropical regions like Hawaii. Or Guam.”</p><p>“Um,” Molly says. Hawaii or Guam? “I’m supposed to leave London?”</p><p>Anthea looks up from her phone again, her fingers stilling on the keyboard. “We aren’t sure if Moriarty is willing to retaliate. We need to take every precaution and your safety is important to us.</p><p>She keeps her voice dry so that she almost sounds like a public awareness campaign, but Molly doesn’t miss the spot of concern beneath it. Anthea saw Jim before any of them knew it was him; she knows what he was like in a way that no one else but Molly does. She wonders if the safe house is as much Anthea’s idea as Mycroft’s, if she pushed it on him when there were countless other, more important things to consider. </p><p>“Thank you,” Molly says quietly. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”</p><p>Anthea turns off her phone, both of her eyebrows flying upwards. “What?”</p><p>Molly looks down at her hands slipping around the coffee mug. She thinks about the lock on her door and wonders how much it would be to replace the door altogether. Something wooden and sturdy, perhaps with an iron bolt. </p><p>“It sounds a little too much like running away, and I have my work here,” she says slowly.</p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” Anthea snaps. “You’re a civilian, Molly. You don’t have to be involved like the rest of them.”</p><p>Molly wants to laugh at that. She’d been involved since the moment she met Sherlock, swept up by him and his observations and the ferocity of his brilliance — she’s <em> cared </em> since she’s realized that this brilliance has the limited lifespan of a lightning flash. </p><p>And now, in meeting Mycroft, she knows that she’s now witnessed an entire storm. If she is honest with herself, she knows that she’s a little too caught up in it, too <em> enthralled, </em> to go away now. The sensible part of her brain is very small indeed.</p><p>“It’s fine,” she says, and for the first time in a long time, she truly means it. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>Anthea shakes her head, throwing her phone onto the table. </p><p>“You’re the same as the whole lot of them, drinking out of the same insanity cooler. It’s your life to gamble with, but remember,” she says, drawing in closer, her eyes lit with warning. “It’s only going to get more dangerous from here.”</p><p>Molly smiles innocently, her shrug timid and her face rosy in the dim morning light. “Who’d want to hurt me?” she asks. </p><p>Anthea stares at her, and then the two of them burst into laughter, hunched over their mugs of coffee, too long and too loud until Sherlock slams into the kitchen, his nose drawn up in disgust, only to ask them to <em> please</em>, keep it down, would you?</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft doesn’t protest when Molly says she’s staying in London, in her own flat. He listens to her carefully, his hands steepled as he sits at the kitchen table, a cup of tea growing cold in front of him. </p><p>Sherlock, after whirling in and demanding their silence, has left to return to Baker Street and to John Watson, who is waiting patiently to see if an international criminal syndicate will burst through the door and murder him and Mrs. Hudson. Before he leaves, Sherlock fixes Molly with a warning glare. </p><p>“I’ll see you at Bart’s,” he says quietly, and she feels the threat intimately in the marrow of her skeleton.</p><p>“I’m going to guess,” she says to Mycroft, “Sherlock is also insisting on staying where he is?”</p><p>Mycroft looks at her over his fingers. His gaze is alert but there are bags under his eyes and gravity is doing its utmost to cause premature lines around his mouth. For all the fresh starch in his shirt collar, he’s exhausted and she can see it. </p><p>“My life would be considerably easier if the two of you did as you were told,” he says finally. “But we are also all adults, even my brother, technically speaking. I won’t force you, Molly.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate it.” </p><p>And she does, truly. Mycroft is an important man, but he’s also a nice one. It is nice of him to think of her safety, and it is nice of him to respect her decisions as a functioning adult person. There are other people, other men, who aren’t capable of either of those things. </p><p>“He won’t come for me, you know,” she remarks quietly after a short silence. Mycroft glances at her from over his mug, his gaze curious. </p><p>“He won’t care about me anymore. I wasn’t anything more than a distraction, a way for him to get off.” She smiles a little down at her tea mug. “I was too afraid. He probably felt that was enough. It’s why he let me go.”</p><p>There are few things Molly knows as well as the bodies of women who are found with signs of struggle, of all the things that are done to them in order to keep them quiet. She once examined a woman (Claire, 37, suffocation, traces of Rohypnol in her system) who was called in by a colleague, who later turned out to have been asked to transfer departments after numerous complaints to HR. There was a company-wide happy hour, Greg said to her later, his face tight and pale. The colleague took her back to his flat, she woke up too early, and that was that. </p><p>It was an utterly ordinary, open-and-shut murder case, but it was also the first time she recognized a body on the slab. Molly spent a week wondering where they had met, how they were connected, until she was standing in line for a sandwich at Pret and abruptly remembered a pretty, strained looking blonde woman picking out a salad and a packet of crisps from the selection next to her. Molly opened her file when she returned to the morgue, sitting and staring at Claire’s name until it was burned across her retinas, the color of her bruises imprinted onto her memory. </p><p>She must have been so afraid, Molly thinks. It was the same fear that pumped leaden through Molly’s bloodstream, forcing her to stand with her hand frozen in front of her while Jim crooned behind a pathetic door. The same fear that still hasn’t left her completely, that still snakes up her esophagus if she shuts her eyes for too long. Fear, and a bitter, bitter, sickening sense of shame. </p><p>Mycroft says nothing; he only keeps staring at her with an unreadable expression. Molly is careful to keep her face flat, to keep smiling down at her tea mug. As the silence stretches on, she glances up, trying to look reassuring. </p><p>"You're a kind man, Mycroft," she says. "No matter what your brother says."</p><p>A corner of his lip twists upwards, an expression she now recognizes as something close to camaraderie, perhaps even admiration. It’s how Mycroft smiles at her. </p><p>“Moriarty will rue the day he came after you, Molly,” Mycroft tells her, her name soft in his voice. She feels a flush creep into her cheeks at the way he looks at her, and her heart twists in warning. He's still smiling. </p><p>"I'll be looking forward to it."</p>
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